


Flash Courses

by therudestflower



Series: Pulitzer University [3]
Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Angst!, Bed Bath and Beyond, Gen, Is this being unseasonably posted? Yes, Katherine???, Music, Possibly other things, Sensory Processing Disorder, Swifty needs his own tag, Thanksgiving, Why can't I post things in seasons, and they were roommates!, because honestly it was just a back and forth convo and the convo was the most important thing, dialogue only for chapter 8, gumption galore, in my drabbles fic?, oh god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15358929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therudestflower/pseuds/therudestflower
Summary: A collection of drabbles in the Pulitzer University verseNot Thanksgiving: Jack sees the upcoming Thanksgiving break as an opportunity to bring his community together--and encourage his roommate to step out of his shell.Ambient Sound: Skittery tries to find a job and finds the methods that worked in Middle, Wyoming don't work in Manhattan.Purple: Swifty and Jack are roommates. Swifty and Jack are different.The Girl: A girl comes to Jack's door looking for David. Jack is intrigued.String Lights: Swifty nestsLast Day: Boots and Spot's last day on the streets of Brookyln starts out ordinary.The Yellow Ones: Race and Spot are sick.Seriously: Race and Spot talk.Did You Forget to Save?: Spot flies too close to the sun.





	1. Not Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving break was off to a boring start, in Jack Kelly’s humble but accurate opinion.

On the Tuesday that was the eve of his freedom, the last thing on his schedule was the Roosevelter meeting. Every other week Jack and the other class of 2020 Rooselvters—10 male students who received the same comprehensive scholarship—had to sacrifice a free lunch hour to attend a meeting run by their scholarship advisor Bryan Denton. They got a free lunch, so Jack always was sure to bring his backpack so he could grab leftovers.

It was a fancy oak walled room in the administrative center. The meetings were sometimes so capital B Boring that Jack resorted to staring at the portraits of rich dudes who did something fancy for Pulitzer University. He imagined what the paintings would look like if the fancy schmucks had them painted during a zombie apocalypse, or a while suffering through a lower tax bracket or something.

Hanging behind Denton’s head the during every meeting was a painting of Joseph Pulitzer himself. No amount of fancy painting could hide that the dude looked like a total sociopath.

This meeting was especially boring because Denton decided to talk the whole time about Thanksgiving.

Jack tuned in just in time to hear Denton talk about how Thanksgiving was a colonialist holiday, and tuned out when he transitioned too quickly into advising them on how to use it to exercise healthy gratitude.

David elbowed him, hard. Jack looked around and made an innocent face. “What?” he asked.

“Pay attention,” David hissed.

David was a goodie goodie. Jack was trying his damnedest to change that.

“So,” Denton projected, “While I will not be here for Thanksgiving, I encourage you to organize and celebrate together. Past classes have had Thanksgiving potlucks. The Lodging house has a full kitchen available to you, and I’ll be emailing out easy Thanksgiving recipes for you to use.”

Next to him Spot Conlon—noted pain in the ass and general downer—muttered, “Oh yeah, I just can’t wait to play dream house with my brothers.”

Denton obviously heard him because he said next, “You are not required to organize, but I—”

Filled with annoyance from Spot being such a rock sinker, Jack burst out, “Oh we’re organizing Denty, we’re going to have a Thanksgiving like you’ve never seen.”

Everyone laughed and shouted things at Jack but he was _serious._ Why couldn’t they have a nice Thanksgiving? He’d had nothing but nice Thanksgivings—celebrating like, pie, not the genocide of millions of Native Americans—and that wasn’t going to stop just because he was in college.

“You doing all the cooking Jackie?” Race called from across the room.

“We’ll all cook,” Jack said, “I’ve seen your fridge Racetrack, I know you’re a massive foodie.”

Racetrack shook his head, “I don’t share.”

Kid Blink and Mush booed him. Denton gestured for them to calm down. “I know you have a group chat, not to mention you live together, so I’ll let you figure it out. Don’t forget, you don’t have to just stick to yourself, feel free to involve others on your floor.”

Denton was great in a lot of ways, but sometimes he had to stop while he was ahead. He didn’t have to tell Jack who to include in his great Thanksgiving.

“Don’t worry Denty,” Jack said, “Me and David, we got it covered.”

David startled and while Denton moved on to talking about study tips he whispered to Jack, “Why am I involved now?”

“We’re partners Davey,” Jack said, “We’re together in everything.”

 

* * *

 

 

A week ago Kid Blink had claimed the first night of Thanksgiving break as his for a room party, while Jack was now happy he allowed because he was busy organizing Thanksgiving. The theme of the party was light—for some reason—and Blink texted to bring Christmas lights, flashlights and kind of light. In Jacks humble—but still accurate—opinion Kid Blink didn’t really understand what made a good party.  

Still, he and David were in their room trying to find something that lit up that wasn’t dorm property or a Jacobs family heirloom.

David was angrily rifling through his bookcase. “I don’t know why you decided that we’re going to do some made up Thanksgiving crap. And I don’t know why you roped me into it.”

God. David secretly wanted to be in charge, he just hadn’t found it in himself to take the initiative yet. That’s why Jack had to initiative for him.

So he ignored the bellyaching.

“Make a list of everybody,” Jack said, “And we’ll get them to commit to what they’re bringing to the potluck.”

David threw his pillow on his bed. “No one knows how to cook. All I’ve ever seen anyone on this make is mixed drinks. And they’re not good at it.”

Jack picked up the pillow and threw it on his own bed just to get Davey’s attention. “Then they’ll buy a cake. I don’t care. We’re a community, we might as well act like one. 

And David needed to practice being a leader, so Jack made him bring the list to Blink’s room where by happenstance everyone was, even Spot Conlon and Racetrack.

The room was crowded and smelled like straight alcohol. Jack knew he had to act fast and get the list done before everyone was too sloppy to remember that they made a serious commitment.

A surprising number of people had committed to the light theme, there were lamps and Christmas lights strewn across Mush’s bed. The room was overbright, which made it ineffective when Jack turned off the overhead light in an attempt to get attention. Skittery and Swifty looked his way, but no one else noticed.

“Hey!” he yelled, “Pay attention!”

Everyone looked to where Jack was standing by the door. He grinned at them and held out his arm for David to get off Mush’s bed and come join them. “Alright, y’all gotta listen to my friend David and he’s gonna get us set up for Thanksgiving.”

 “We’re all friends with David!” Crutchy yelled.

Even Crutchy was at this party. He’d be a sympathetic audience for David.

David got up, even as he was making a “what the fuck” face toward Jack. He got up and whispered to Jack, “What do you want me to do?”

“Just say some words,” Jack whispered—wisely aware that in this small room as quiet as everyone suddenly was they could easily be heard. “Inspire the team.”

David cleared his throat and looked around the tiny dorm room. Skittery and Dutchy were sitting on Blink’s lofted bed, below it Swifty was hanging off the bed slats. Blink was sitting on his dresser and Mush was sitting at his desk. Crutchy was inexplicably sitting next to Racetrack and Spot Conlon on Mush’s bed.

It was a good audience. They’d be receptive.

“So,” David said rising to the occasion, “We’re all away from home, uh, for Thanksgiving right? And Thanksgiving, well it’s almost a universal holiday in this country. You know, I’m sure there’s not a single one among us who can’t cite a favorite Thanksgiving dish, or tradition.”

Spot snorted, and Jack cut him a look.

David was undeterred. “We’re away from home, but we’re not alone. We’re part of a community. It doesn’t have to be just pretend in front of Denton, or room parties that we don’t invite the rest of the floor to. We can do something _as a community_ that makes us strong and united. So whether it’s peanut M&M’s or a whole damn turkey, sign up to bring something so we can celebrate like the gentlemen we pretend to be.”

Crutchy lifted his glass and let out a, “Woo!” and half the room burst into applause. Roughly the half that Jack expected. Encouraged by this, David reached into his back pocket and took out the small notebook where he made the sign up sheet and passed it around.

Good. David had done good. He was on his way to being a real take-charge guy, the way he busted out his old Speech and Debate skills at the drop of a hat. All that was left was for David to choose when to whip them out on his own.

David passed the notebook around and after some passing, and drinking and overlit room and Blink making a proclamation and Skittery getting into a shouting match with Racetrack, the notebook made it’s way to David. David looked over the list, made a face and passed it to Jack.

 

Blink: Peanut M&M’s

Crutchy: Pumpkin pie!

David: Pasta bake

Dutchy: Lemonade

Jack; Cornbread

Mush: I’m going home to my family in Queens I’m so sorry that was a good speech David

Racetrack: Fuck

Skittery: —

Spot: You

Swifty: Pretzel rolls! :D

 

Back in their room the discussed. “Not bad,” Jack said, “We had some pull outs, no one I didn’t see coming, but some good participation.”

“No one miraculously knows how to roast a turkey,” David said.

“I thought you’d do that,” Jack admitted.

“Why?”

“You have all that cooking stuff,” Jack said.

“I don’t know how to cook meat,” David said.

Jack waved the words away, “So we won’t have meat, no big deal. We have the making of a community like you said.”

“Without Skittery, Spot or Racetrack,” David groused.

Jack shrugged, “We’ll get them for next time.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jack was gratified to see his efforts via David pay off on Thanksgiving day. At 10 in the morning, David woke straight up in bed and said, “Wait, we have to make a schedule for the oven. Me, you, Swifty and Crutchy all need to use the oven. There’s only one oven. We need to make a schedule.”

He jumped out of bed and grabbed his phone and started texting. Jack rolled over in bed a second later when the notification came to his phone that he could use the oven from 2-3:30. He groaned. “That means I gotta go to the store now.”

David jumped out of bed and started pulling on pants. “This was your idea. It wasn’t _my_ idea to involve everyone in one of our only days off. It wasn’t _my_ idea to make a rousing speech that only half worked.”

Jack sat up and grinned. “But you did it, didn’t you? And didn’t it feel good?”

David didn’t respond.

  

* * *

 

 

The dorm was about half empty, and they had scared most everyone else out of the common room what with all the cooking and Kid Blink playing speed metal and singing along. At 7 PM it was just the seven of them, clustered around a table full of food. The pumpkin pie was a little burned, the pasta bake was a little dry, but no one was thinking much about that as they looked at all the food.

“We don’t have any forks,” Dutchy finally said. 

“Or plates,” Swifty added.

Jack looked to David. He gestured for him to do something.

David coughed and stood up straighter. “Do we really need forks and plates? After all isn’t Thanksgiving all about coming together and—“

“Yes,” Crutchy interrupted, “I’m sorry Davey, but we need forks and plates.”

“Skittery steals plates and cutlery from the dining hall,” Dutchy said, sounding miserable. “He keeps them in our closet. He’s in our room now.”

Jack nodded. “David, you go talk to Skittery. Make it nice, get the stuff we need.”

“Skittery isn’t nice,” David said plainly.

Jack smacked him in the shoulder. “You can do it.”

David groaned dramatically but left and just a few minutes later, he was back with an annoyed looking Skittery carrying plates, and David carrying cupfuls of forks and knives.

“Skittery is going to join us,” David said, sounding all of a preschool teacher.

“That’s great!” Swifty said, just a bit too enthusiastically. “There’s plenty to go around.”

They served themselves and took over the couches and floor with their stolen dining hall plates and their shared dishes. The rest of the students had been completely scared out of the common room, which Jack had to admit was a bit of a shame but it meant there was more to go around.

Just as they were tucking in, Spot and Racetrack showed up in their coats. Racetrack dropped a plastic bag on the coffee table.

“Cheese and crackers bitches,” he said.

David looked at them. Jack knew he was annoyed with what they had written on the sign up sheet and he watched and David visibly worked past his annoyance and forced a smile. “Grab a plate guys,” he said. “We got plenty." 

Against all odds, they did.

In Jack’s humble—but still really exceedingly correct—opinion the Thanksgiving mission was a success.

“What are you smiling about?” David asked.

Jack ignored him. “Hey, shouldn’t we got around and say what we’re grateful for?” 

Everyone booed. Even Crutchy. “Hey,” Racetrack said, comfortably taking charge even after only being there a few minutes, “Let’s call it what it is. American Thanksgiving is garbage. It has garbage origins, the food stinks and we’re all fools for celebrating it. Let’s call this Not Thanksgiving and be done with it.”

They were silent for a moment, then David raised his glass, “To the best first Not Thanksgiving I’ve ever been to.”

Jack raised his glass, “And many more.”

He watched the eight others eating the crappy food they’d all made and congratulated himself on making it happen. And making Davey make it happen. Someday David would thank him for this, for encouraging him to make his big speeches and make magic holidays happen.

What were roommates for, if not encouraging new skills?

Especially when it led to the two of them getting to keep all the leftover food for themselves.


	2. Ambient Sound

At home in Middle, population 112, there was only one way to get a job. You drove into town on your Grandpa’s pickup and walked into stores and said in your most polite voice, “Ma’am, I’m looking for work, I was wondering if you needed anyone.”

 

Skittery was never very good at that.

 

There were only seven stores in an hours driving distance of his Grandpa’s squat house that he loved to tell Skittery he had built with his own two hands, even though Skittery had been to Cormac McGarther’s house ten miles down the way and it was nearly identical to theirs.

 

He’d been to all seven stores multiple times and grit his teeth through unnatural words until he got a job at the shoe store. It was the only one within driving distance for people from towns all over, so it attracted grubby kids and strangers whose feet Skittery had to smell and touch and tolerate and—

 

And that job didn’t last long.

 

His Grandpa didn’t say a word when he got fired for walking out with some kid’s grimy sneaker still in his hands, just shook his head and turned away when Skittery offered that he could start selling his CD’s for money.

 

Grandpa said, “I won’t ask you to sell pieces of yourself.”

 

When he got to New York—improbably and on a blaring loud airplane—he figured the same approach would work for finding a job. He started with stores nearby his dorm, putting on his best shirt and the shoes that didn’t have tape on the soles just in case someone would notice. He walked in and tried his best to hide his accent when he said, “Ma’am, I’m looking for work, I was wondering if you needed anyone.”

 

He got laughed out of a toy store and a diner and politely turned away from a shoe store before he realized that wouldn’t fucking work.

 

The streets were hot and overwhelming. Skittery gave himself credit for even leaving his dorm. Grandpa was worried that he wouldn’t be able to handle it, that he would start crying in the street like he did when they went to a festival in Cheyenne. But there was no other way, no other future for Skittery except this scholarship and he couldn’t turn it down just because it wasn’t on a farm or something.

 

He spent two days hiding in his dorm, but his dorm was the loudest place he’d ever been. His roommate, Dutchy, was quiet enough, preferring to sit at his desk on his new laptop with noise cancelling headphones. The real problem was the other boys on their floor who yelled and knocked things over and threw parties in the middle of the night non-fucking-stop.

 

Skittery curled up on his bed with headphones on, listening to music he chose, thinking about what his Grandpa had said to him once, “If you want a career in music, you need to learn to be okay with noise you didn’t sign up for.”

 

He wasn’t at that point. He didn’t even have a job, like he’d promised his Grandpa he would. Grandpa wanted him busy, and said “There are thousands more stores in New York than there are in this county. You should have no trouble. Stay busy. Stay on top of things. Don’t get into trouble.”

 

Grandpa was worried about sophomore year happening again but it _wouldn’t._

He brought it up to Denton at their next meeting. The job thing, the New York not being Wyoming thing. Denton smiled knowingly.

 

“Yes,” he said, “I could see that method not working. Have you thought about where you want to work?”

 

Skittery shrugged. Denton stared at him, smiling slightly. It’s like he expected Skittery to come up with something right there but he couldn’t. Finally he told Denton, “Where I’m from, you either have the same job everyone else does, or you work at Wal Mart or you work at one of the seven stores in Emeryville.”

 

“What did you do?” Denton asked.

 

Skittery didn’t mention his two months at the shoe store in his application. Didn’t think it would make him look very good. But now he admitted, “I worked at shoe store. I got fired.”

 

“Why is that?” Denton asked.

 

“This kid had really smelly feet,” Skittery said. Denton looked like he was stifling laughter but eventually let loose with a hearty laugh. Skittery felt his face burn. “They—I have a—”

 

“I know,” Denton said, wiping his eyes, “I’m sorry. Before we talk about the job, maybe we should talk about that a minute? During the retreat I noticed you seemed overwhelmed at times, wearing headphones during small group discussions.”

 

Skittery stared at Denton’s shoulder. “Is that a problem?”

 

“Well. Yes. It worries me if you aren’t able to engage with the group. I know it’s louder here, and New York isn’t Wyoming. Maybe you could check in with student services, see if there’s someone you can talk to?”

 

“Are they going to be able to turn down the volume on this entire city?” Skittery asked, “Because if they can’t, I don’t see how they would help.”

 

Denton pressed his eyebrows together with concern. “I have been wondering,” he said, “You wrote your entrance essay about The Ramones. You enjoy that music?”

 

“Yes,” Skittery said.

 

“You enjoy music, but not noise,” Denton clarified.

 

“Yes,” Skittery repeated.

 

“There are those who think The Ramones are just noise,” Denton said, a slight smile on his face.

 

“Those people are dumb,” Skittery said.

 

Denton nodded, then his face lit up. “I don’t suppose you would want to work in a music shop?”

 

“Those still exist?” Skittery asked.

 

Denton nodded heartily. “Everything exists in this city. They play music on the sound system all day, but you would be talking to people about music, selling it, getting discounts for yourself. You may enjoy it. And I have a friend whose mother owns one not to far from here. You’d have to take the subway there, but it may be worth checking out.”

 

“Should I go there and ask if they’re hiring?” Skittery asked.

 

Denton shook his head, and Skittery felt like a fool all over again. Of course not. This whole meeting was because that wasn’t working.

 

“I’ll give your email and phone number to my friend’s mother. She will pass it along to her mother, and we’ll see if she’s hiring then.”

 

“Why can’t I just ask her directly?”

 

“Socially,” Denton said, “it’s better for it to come from someone the person doing the hiring likes. Her daughter. Her daughter’s friend. Comes across much more smoothly than a strange boy in a ripped Sex Pistol’s t-shirt.”

 

Skittery looked down at his shirt self-consciously. No one had ever told him his shirt was a problem. Except teachers at school. But they didn’t count.

 

“Should I wear something else if she interviews me?” Skittery asked.

 

“It might be prudent.”

 

A week later Skittery was on the subway going north to Scratch Record Store. He had spent the night before obsessively researching everything he could find about it on twitter, reddit, Instagram, Facebook, and the store website. They hosted small concerts for local bands and sold vintage records as well as new ones.

 

They had three posts on their twitter adverting 1989, so they were kind of sell outs, but Skittery needed a job. Not because he needed money—the stipend was more than his Grandpa got to support both of them in benefits—but because if he just did school then he would lose his mind. He knew it. He needed something different to fill his days with so his mind was packed tight when he was going to bed, leaving no room for thoughts to batter around.

 

He was wearing an Inverted Smash shirt which didn’t have any swears, rips or boobs on it. It was the nicest thing in his closet that he’d never worn to a funeral, so he hoped it was good enough. He was interviewing at a music shop after all, not an office.

 

He rode the subway with his headphones on, blasting Rocket to Russia on his MYMAHDI mp3 player with over the ear headphones they gave him at the ranch at the end of his stay. He was so focused on his music that he almost missed his stop, but he made it out and made it to the store only ten minutes late.

 

Scratch was a two-story storefront with a loft area with seating and a wall of records. Skittery pulled his headphones off and looked around. It was like a more compact Empire Records, like a larger High Fidelity. The storefront as narrow but went back away and it was _crowded_ but it was playing Corn Fantasies over the speaker systems and that was good.

 

A woman with grey hair and not enough hair looked up at him. She was behind a counter, stacking CDs. “How can I help you?”

 

“I’m…I’m Arthur?” he said, wincing at how unsure he sounded.

 

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure about that?”

 

“I’m also, people also call me Skittery. I don’t know what Denton told you.”

 

The woman didn’t smile the way people usually did when Skittery said something awkward. She just tapped the CDs against the counter and came out from behind it. She held out a hand.

 

Skittery stared at her hand. He knew he was supposed to shake it, but he didn’t like touching strangers, so he just nodded and hoped that was good enough. The woman dropped her hand.

 

“I’m Elizabeth,” she said, “I’m the owner. They told me both names. They also told me you got into college on an essay about The Ramones.”

 

“That’s true, ma’am,” he said.

 

The woman’s eyebrows seemed to be permanently raised. She held out her hand, “Give me your iPhone,” she said.

 

“What?”

 

“This is the best way to know your music tastes, kid,” she said, wiggling her fingers, “hand it over.” Skittery pulled out his MYMAHDI and handed it to her. She took it but made a face. ”What the hell is this?”

 

“It’s a MYMAHDI,” Skittery said, enunciating every letter, “It’s an MP3 player.”

 

Elizabeth gave him a quizzical look, but started navigating her way through his playlists. Skittery moved next to her, standing closer to he than he would have liked, in order to see what she was saying. It was invasive, in his opinion, to ask for this but he needed a job. And he was proud of his music selection.

 

“Old school punk,” she listed off, “Midwestern punk, folk, country? A lot of country.”

 

“Not a lot,” Skittery said.

 

“A lot compared to the rest,” Elizabeth said, handing over his MYMAHDI. “Where are you from?”

 

“Middle, Wyoming,” Skittery said.

 

“Never heard of it,” Elizabeth said.

 

Skittery nodded.

 

Elizabeth waited.

 

“I know my music,” he said, “I’m at Putlizer as a Music Business major. I might not have everything on my MYMAHDI, but I know a lot. I know that you are pushing Taylor Swift and other mainstream artist to get people in the door, but you host small bands and have a loyal local following. I know that most of your stuff is older used records, and you have collectors coming in from all over the East coast. And I can sell that. I’m obsessive. If you want to see something, you should see me on the message boards. I’m so into some bands, they send _me_ merch just to say thank you. I swear, you won’t find someone more into their shit—um. Stuff. Than I am.”

 

It was the most he had said to anyone since arriving in New York two weeks ago, maybe in years. But he means it all. Being inside this record store with Corn Fantasies playing end endless stacks of CDs and records, he knew he had to be here. He didn’t have enough money to be a customer, so he would work here. He had to. Even with the music playing and the sounds taxis outside and of customers arguing in the back, his skin felt calm for the first time since coming to New York.

 

Elizabeth gave him a look Skittery couldn’t read.

 

“We sell Top 40,” she said, “You’ll have to get familiar with some music I don’t think you’ll like.”

 

“I can do that,” she said.

 

“Do you know how to work a cash register?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Ever handled angry customers?”

 

“Yes, ma’am?”

 

“You’ll have to listen to Top 40, and you’ll have to get used to New York. Think you can do that in a week?”

 

“What?”

 

“Start in a week, show me a more diverse….MTB?”

 

“MYMAHDI.”

 

“And more like a New Yorker? Less Wyoming.”

 

Skittery didn’t know what about him was Wyoming. He was wearing a t-shirt for a punk band in Cleveland.

 

“I think so,” he said.

 

“Know so,” Elizabeth said.

 

“I can,” Skittery said.

 

A week later he came back with a new haircut, an overpriced t-shirt from an underground show he went to alone with the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to it.

 

“I listened to Arianna Grande, ma’am,” he morosely informed her.

 

Elizabeth sniffed and rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant,” she said.

 

He’d gotten it wrong again? Elizabeth held out her hand for his MYMAHDI but Skittery didn’t provide it.

 

“Just don’t hire me, then,” he said, “I get things wrong all the time.”

 

Elizabeth shook her head. “I like people who try,” she said, “let’s go get you a register key. And Skittery?”

 

“Yes m’am?”

 

“Never call me ma’am again.”


	3. Purple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tuppenny. Almost no cussing!

Swifty was excited about Jack being his new roommate.

 

Well.

 

Swifty was excited about many things.

 

It had always been in his nature. He was a positive, happy person and always had been. Even when things got dark or scary, he could be counted on to provide a sunny smile and maybe even perform a dance routine to lighten the mood.

 

So when David—then Denton—informed him that Jack would be moving into his apartment, he was thrilled. It was lonely, being in his apartment with no one else there. He threw his clothes on the other bed, but even though he had to move the to the armoire he was happy to make the space for Jack.

 

Jack was the true leader of their program. He organized most of the parties, the outings, the group events. Denton organized the sanctioned ones, sure, but it was Jack who rounded up the guys at two in the morning for a trip to Tibby’s.

 

Swifty had organized the apartment just the way he wanted it. He strung Christmas lights and put out candles even though candle certainly were not allowed in campus housing, and had his lavender diffuser going at all times. He hoped that Jack would find the environment as soothing as he did.

 

Jack showed up on a Monday after having spent most of the week at David and Spot’s, because Swifty had agreed earlier to host Mush for the week. Mush was an excellent guest. He wiped the shower down when he was done, and he did dishes and Swifty was as sad to see him go as we was excited to see Jack.

 

Jack showed up with his red backpack and a grin on his face. He pulled Swifty into a hearty hug.

 

“Swift!” he yelled,” Thanks for having me!”

 

“Thanks for coming!” Swifty said happily. “I cleaned the room for you.”

 

Jack looked around the living room and laughed. “What is this, a spa?”

 

Swifty looked around. “Oh,” he said, “It’s just nice?”

 

“It’s nice,” Jack said, “but like. Dude. Is this how it is all the time?”

 

Swifty felt his face grow hot. “Um,” he said, “yes?”

 

“Cool!” Jack suddenly said, voice bright and positive. “Very, very cool.”

 

Except it wasn’t very cool.

 

Two days in Jack’s socks were everywhere. Swifty wasn’t sure how he had so many socks considering that he had just showed up with one red backpack. But it seemed, to Swifty’s dismay, that Jack’s backpack was entirely full of white socks with yellow toes.

 

Swifty found socks under the couch cushions. He found socks in the bathtub. He founds socks in the kitchen cabinets. And somehow, he never saw Jack wearing socks.

 

And they _smelled._

 

The lavender could hardly keep up.

 

He came home from ballet class one day, with dried sweat down his back and stiffening his hair and found Jack in the living room with gallons of paint on the floor and the couch on the opposite side of the room. He had a paintbrush in hand and was lifting it, inches away from making contact with the wall of the apartment they didn’t own.

 

“What the hell!” Swifty squeaked.

 

Jack jumped and spun around. When he saw Swifty he grinned drunkenly. “Hey Swift!” he said. “I was just redecorating!”

 

Swifty must have been having a heart attack. Like for sure.

 

“We don’t own this! You can’t deface the walls!”

 

Jack looked at the bright red paint dripping onto the carpet that also was not theirs. “It ain’t defacing it, it’s just improving the wall a bit.”

 

“You can’t improve our wall!” Swifty ran over and took the paintbrush from Jack’s hand and carefully placed it on the paint can lid on the floor. “Where did you even get these?”

 

“I got a job at a hardware store!” Jack slurred. “Thought I’d make this place my own.”

 

“Why are you drunk?” Swifty asked, “It’s like, seven o’clock.”

 

“At night!”

 

Swifty didn’t get mad often, but his mother liked to say, when he did it was “a sight to see.” And he was mad now. He said, “You can’t be this foolish! You know we don’t own this apartment! You know we’ll get fined! And I’ll get fined! And that’s not okay! And it’s not okay that you leave your socks everywhere! I’m not okay with it! This place was perfect before you came!”

 

When he was done he was panting for breath and a sweat had broken out on his brow. Jack wasn’t smiling, he looked a little alarmed. “Damn, Swift,” he said, “It ain’t that serious.”

 

“It’s serious,” Swifty said, “this is not okay.” He huffed. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t—don’t _paint_ while I’m inside. Please, clean this up.”

 

Jack nodded, looking down, at the pain cans on the ground and sheepishly started cleaning them up. Swifty was instantly embarrassed by his display, but he was right! Jack couldn’t just do this stuff!

 

When he got out of the shower, the paint and brushes were in one corner and Jack was watching YouTube videos on the couch as he always was. He looked up at Swifty nervously.

 

He hadn’t yelled that much had he?  


“I’m drunk,” Jack said instantly.

 

“I know,” Swifty said.

 

“I thought it was a good idea.”

 

“It’s a nice idea!” Swifty insisted, “Red is nice! I mean. Not red. Red inspired anxiety and anger, and that’s not good. But otherwise, it’s a nice idea.”

 

Jack shrugged. “My room at my dad’s house was red,” he said.

 

“Oh,” Swifty said. “That’s interesting at all, and I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make it okay to get drunk and try to paint our rented wall.”

 

It was probably the most assertive thing he’d said ever ever.

 

Jack just nodded. They didn’t talk for the rest of the night. Swifty didn’t go to Spot and David’s, but when he woke up in the morning Jack was gone and so were all the socks.

 

Swifty felt like a world class jerk.

 

On his way back from jazz that night, he stopped in an art store and got the biggest canvas her could carry the seven blocks to Badger Building. This was nice, this would make up for him yelling earlier. Jack had the right to feel at home in his home, and Swifty had to help as his roommate. Crutchy never tried to paint the wall of their dorm room, sure, and he was pretty neat and in return Swify didn’t do readings while Crutchy was in the room. Jack had no qualms about “black magic” like Crutchy did, so he should have been more generous. What were a few socks in a pot between friends?

 

When he got home he found Jack in the living room. The couch was still across the room, but Jack had an identically sized canvas leaning against the wall, over a new tarp, and with new cans of paint.

 

Purple and yellow.

 

“I’m doing a Santa Fe sunset,” Jack said without looking over his shoulder, “I went online. Purple and yellow are good colors, for your like. Feelings. So yeah? Good?”

 

Jack turned around and started laughing immediately. Swifty put the canvas in his hands down.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

 

“Dude, you didn’t _yell,”_ Jack said, “And you should have yelled. I was being a drunk idiot.”

 

Swifty didn’t agree or disagree. “I didn’t know you painted,” he said instead.

 

“I don’t really,” Jack said, “I never been a big artist. Maybe in a different life.”

 

“Maybe,” Swifty agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's a drabble you want to see, I write these almost every day as warms ups for the main stories, so I'm open to ideas!


	4. The Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TUPPENNY!!!
> 
> Jack is still 92sies, the girl tho? Who knows?

Jack opened the door to a girl who he had never seen in the Lodging House before. He didn’t know every single girl on the other floors, but he would have _remembered her._

She had shining brown eyes and long brown hair and a bright purple sweater that made Jack think off sunsets and doughnuts. She was hitching a messenger bag up on her shoulder and shuffled a spiral notebook between her hands.

 

“I’m looking for David Jacobs?” she said.

 

Jack grinned. He stood up straighter and pulled at his shirt. He had to look good for this girl. If he’d known it was her at the door—whoever she was—he would have put a little more effort into the moment between rolling out of bed and answering the door.

 

“Are you sure you ain’t looking for me?”

 

She looked at him doubtfully. “Are you David Jacobs?”

 

“I could be,” Jack said.

 

Her posture relaxed and she rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen David’s Instagram. I know you’re not him. You look completely different.”

 

“But I had you going for a second, didn’t I?” Jack asked.

 

He was racing to figure out what this girl wanted with David. Girls had crushes on David, sure, but he always ignored their attentions, preferring to focus on a specific jerkwad. The night before they’d gone to a party at one of the high priced dorms where some girls were flirting with David, but Jack didn’t remember seeing her there. He would have remembered.

 

The girl started craning her head around Jack’s shoulder, trying to see into their room. Jack thought of the computer in pieces in their bedroom floor and stepped more directly in front of the door.

 

“David ain’t here, but there anything I can do for you?”

 

“I’m only here to speak to David.”

 

“You pregnant?” Jack joked.

 

“Excuse me!” the girl shrieked. “You have no right to speak to me that way!”

 

Jack thought that was a pretty good joke, but did not think it would be helpful to point that out. The girl took a deep breath and moved her notebook from hand to hand.

 

“I work for The Banner,” she said, “I’m here to talk to David about his proposal to the Roosevelt Scholarship board.” When Jack didn’t immediately reply, she added, “The Banner is the student newspaper.”

 

“I know what The Banner is!” Jack said, moritified.

 

The girl held up her free hand, “Well I’m _sorry,_ you looked confused.”

 

“I weren’t confused, I was just thinking. Is it ethical to show up at a subject’s home and accost their roommates? You don’t even live here. You had to break in.”

 

The girl actually blushed. “I didn’t break in. The door was open. Everyone knows The Lodging House as the worst security of all the dorms.”

 

“That means you didn’t break, but you trespassed. I could call campus security, huh?”

 

“How do you know I don’t live here?” she asked, standing at full height. The confidence with which she stood, not the mention her cashmere sweater and fancy boots made it too obvious where she stood in life.

 

He wasn’t David. He wasn’t about to point out that she was obviously wealthy, or at least from a wealthy family, and therefore no chance would be slumming it in the cheapest dorm at Pulitzer University.

 

“I would have remembered you,” he said instead.

 

Instead of blinking her eyes doeishly or blushing, she just looked annoyed. “Can you tell David Jacobs I was here?” she asked.

 

“Course I can,” Jack said, “I’d rather tell him about the date I had with a beautiful girl.”

 

The girl hummed. “You better find a beautiful girl, then. One who will give you the time of day I mean.”


	5. String Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Carbon65

 Swifty found out that he got the Roosevelt scholarship with more than enough time to plan for his new dorm room. In June he got a letter in the mail saying his roommate was a Samuel Davison and noted that they were in an accessible room which Swifty hadn’t requested. It included Samuel’s email and Swifty waited until his mom and her husband were asleep before taking over the computer in the kitchen and methodically composing an email to Samuel. 

_Hello!_

_This is Nate your new roommate but everyone calls me Swifty! I’m a Dance major or I’m planning to be :). I’m excited to be your roommate! I looked it up and saw we have an accessible room which means our room is bigger than the others :). I was wondering more about you like what your major is and maybe more importantly what you think our room should be like? I believe a room should be a sanctuary so I’m thinking pastels and–_

Swifty stopped typing and looked down the hall to the room he shared with his older brother, Randall. Randall believed a room was a trash pit and gym socks were to be hoarded. He also liked to remind Swifty that he had to be careful of being “womanly” because not everyone was as fucking nice as he was okay?

Swifty deleted the last sentence.

_Or whatever. Just let me know._

_Swifty_

Samuel emailed a few days later with some vital information. They had an accessible room because Samuel had a disability and mobility devices that would take up some space in the room and they couldn’t bunk the beds (“if that’s k with you!”). Samuel also asked to be called Crutchy (“im all aboht reclaiming!”) and said they could do whatever they wanted with the room. He sent a picture of himself and some links to tracks he’d designed on sound cloud and said he was undeclared.

He seemed nice enough.

Swifty worked at a camp over the summer but his mother insisted on paying for his bedding and dorm accouterment. They couldn’t exactly bring it on the plane from Hawaii, so they ordered it all to be picked up at a Bed Bath and Beyond in Manhattan.

He wanted everything to be white and purple, but his mom stopped him from adding a set of lilac jersey sheets to the cart. She looked behind herself as though she expected her husband to walk in even though they had planned this for when he was at work. 

"No, honey," she said.

"I can use my own money," Swifty said. He was already thinking of how nice it would be to land on something that was the right color, something soothing when he came home.

"I'll use my own money," Swifty said.

His mother shook her head. 

"He's coming with us to take you to school," she said, "Don't start a fight, sweetheart."

That was always the final word. 

He ordered everything white. White sheets. White towels. While shower caddy. He wanted colors, lilac and lavender and cerulean but colors were apparently gay and womanly and everyone knew that was the worst thing Swifty could be. 

He looked up the Bed Bath and Beyond return policy and found that unopened items could be returned within thirty days. His mother's husband wasn't going to be in Manhattan for more than a few days, Swifty could find excuses not to open his sheets for long enough. 

But there was still Crutchy to deal with. And the other guys on his floor. Swifty had gotten away with a lot, going to an arts high school, but he didn't know what college would be like. 

Did he need to man up? No matter how beautiful the lilac sheets were? 

A few months later found him with bags of unopened Bed Bath and Beyond packages sitting on his extra-long twin mattress and his mother's husband inpatient to get on the soonest flight back to Hawaii. 

Swifty barely heard the disparaging things he said about Manhattan, the other boys on the floor, Swifty himself. He was on high, thinking of his mother's husband being as far across the country from him as possible, and the fact that he hated Manhattan enough to pay extra to get away sooner. 

He hugged his mother and shook her husband's hand. The goodbye was short and simple because everyone involved knew it was for the best, maybe. 

Upstairs he found Crutchy sitting on his bed, across the room from Swifty's unmade bed, He was eating out of a carton of Dunkin Donuts munchkins and broke into a genuine smile when Swifty walked in the room. 

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

"Going home," Swifty said. 

Crutchy nodded his head down the hall. "My parents just figured out that I need sheets. Go figure! We're going to Bed Bath and Beyond, want to come?" 

Yes. It was perfect. Swifty did. 

He looked at the bags of white and navy blue ugly ugly things he had thought it would take him many trips to replace. But Crutchy's parents had come from New Jersey with a van, and they wouldn't do anything to Swifty's mom if he chose the wrong color. 

"Yeah," Swifty said, "Yeah, I have to exchange some things."

"Oh yeah," Crutchy said, "You should know, I'm a nosy Nelly. I poked my nose in your bags and saw that it's boresville station. Don't strike me as your scene."

Hope spread through Swifty's shoulders and he stood a little straighter. 

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah," Crutchy said. "I mean. I don't have anything, so the room can be whatever we want if you're exchanging things. Did you have anything in mind or nothing?"

Swifty thought of his house and Randall's socks and the sounds that came into his room no matter how loud he played Enya while trying to meditate.

"I want it to be like," he struggled for words, "good? Calm?"

Crutchy smiled. "Good. Calm. I'm kind of a crazy guy, you know? I might not be the zenny buddy you need, but we can do that."

"We can?"

"Well sure!" Crutchy said, getting up off the bed and grabbing one of his arm crutches. Swifty observed how practiced the motion was, jerky as it was. The wheelchair in the corner was ignored as they went to find Crutchy's parents, who they found down the hall yelling at Denton about the fact that the elevator wasn't working. 

When Crutchy showed up they didn't pretend they weren't yelling, they just went on until Denton got on the phone with someone and they were assured that someone was coming ot fix the elevator today. When that was over, they didn't pretend everything was alright, they talked about how it was illegal and wrong the entire drive to Bed Bath and Beyond but turned gradually to a positive mood once they were inside. 

"Swifty," Crutchy's mom said, finally putting down her cell phone, "you seem to already have some items." 

That was understating things. Swifty had so many things Crutchy's dad was helping him carry them to the customer service desk. 

"I ordered the wrong stuff," he said. 

Crutchy's mom hummed and grabbed a cart. Crutchy's dad stayed with him while they went off, even though Swifty wasn't sure why. 

He didn't fight him on it though. 

The associate wanted to put the money on the credit card that paid for it, his mother's husbands. His plan was ruined. Before Swifty could open his mouth, Crutchy's father said, "No, a store gift card please." 

Swifty looked at him confused. "Can they do that?" he asked. 

"No," the associate said. She was very annoyed to have two hundred dollars of merchandise returned all at once as it was. 

"Sure you can," Crutchy's dad said, "If you can't a manager can, and if a manager can't, we'll wait." 

The associate looked at the growing line behind them and sighed. She gave him a gift card and for the first time, Swifty wondered if this was the freedom he'd been promised in college. 

"Thank you," he said to Crutchy's dad. He had no idea what he'd done. 

"Yes," Crutchy's dad said. "Come, let's find you things that a little more your speed." 

Emboldened, Swifty found Crutchy in the bedding aisle and convinced him to choose blue sheets that complimented the perfect lilac sheets that Swifty was delighted to find. He chose deep green towels and a matte blue trash can. He was thrilled when Crutchy's parents shelled out for a mini fridge and when Crutchy's mom yelled to get his attention in an aisle with a lot of candles. 

"I gave Samuel one of my diffuser's," she said, "It's a machine that vaporizes water and diffuses out essential oils into the room. Very good.  know essential oils can't solve everything, but they can solve some things. He like the eucalyptus, I want you to choose a scent you want."

Everything she had just said was so odd and alien but Swifty found himself joyous at the idea. He could picture what the diffuser did and he knew he liked eucalyptus and he knew that lavender was supposed to be very calming and healing and wonderful. He took a small 10 ml bottle off the shelf, and Crutchy's mom reached up and took a one-ounce bottle and added it to her basket. 

When they were checking out Swifty had his eye on a string of purple and pink lights. Those colors were good. Having them shining in their room would be wonderful. But they were also the most feminine colors there were, and Swity could do a lot of things but he couldn't be  _that_ womanly. That wasn't okay. 

Crutchy followed his gaze and his eyes lit up. "Oh!" he said, "Those match our stuff perfectly!"

Swifty looked at him, stunned. "You're okay with us having those?"

"Do you like them?" Crutchy asked. 

"Yes," Swifty said. 

"Well, pal," Crutchy said, "Get them! Make our room nice for you!"

"Will it be nice for you though?" Swifty asked, unable to take his eyes off the lights. 

"I don't care if our room is covered in camo or rose petals, honestly," Crutchy said, "As long as I have a happy roommate."

With a shy smile, Swifty darted out of line and picked up two boxes of the purple and pink lights. He added them to his cart and danced from foot to foot as they checked out.

They had Roosevelter activities later so it wasn't until that night that Swifty had the room set up perfectly. Crutchy showed him how to use the diffuser and he added the lavender. It was chugging along happily as Swifty hung up the purple and pink lights. He stepped back and took in the room. 

He didn't know what would happen if Randall or his mother's husband saw this room. But they never would. This room was his, and Crutchy's. It was pastel and soothing and the hum of the refrigerator and the diffuser was better than any sound in his house ever was. 

The lights lined the room and when Swifty turned off the harsh overhead lights, they threw the room into a rosy glow. Crutchy oo'ed. 

"Okay," Swifty said, "Just let me know, okay? If I'm ever too feminine, or whatever. We can take all this down."

"This is your home," Crutchy said, "You can be as anything you want in your own home." 

God. 

What a concept. 

Swifty traced his fingers on the illuminated pink lights. 

This was his home now. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on a phone on a bus for Carbon65 so like 
> 
> Tag me in stuff on tumblr about this verse and I will write you a fic IMMEDIATELY
> 
> rudeflower on tumblr


	6. Last Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For politics_and_prose who asked to see Boots being taken away from Spot D: This is how it went down.
> 
> Warnings in the end notes.

Spot’s phone was dead, but he knew that the sun was coming up from the light coming in through the blue tarp covering the car. They were parked in a new place, and Spot didn’t know if a cop or an attendant or an owner or some other asshole was going to show up and try to fuck up their lives.

 

They needed to move.

 

But Boots was asleep. He was curled up in the backseat while Spot was in the driver’s seat, leaning back but not sleeping. He didn’t sleep all night. He couldn’t, not when they’re last place was blown up so badly and he was in a new one where anything could happen. He was tense all night, waiting for knock on the window, telling them to get moving, or threaten to call the cops. But nothing came.

 

“Boots,” he said quietly, “Boots.”

 

Boots didn’t stir. The kid slept like the dead. He had as long as Spot had known him. It didn’t matter if they were in a motel where it sounded like people were killing each other behind the next wall, or crouched behind a dumpster. Once he was down, he was out for the night until his system decided to wake up. He was twelve now, and a book Spot had read at the library told him that his sleep schedule was shifting, and his system wanted to sleep in more. He wasn’t sure how true that was, because according to the book, Spot was supposed to want to get nine hours of sleep a night but anything over three felt indulgent.

 

He reached into the driver’s seat and took out a book he had stolen from the library. It was about small towns in the Midwest, something that was a theory at best to Spot. It was confusing to read about people who wanted to leave their town, who wanted to leave their families for something as stupid as college. If he had someone who wanted him to stick around—

 

It was stupid to even think about.

 

He had Boots.

 

He didn’t know what time it was when Boots woke up, but the sun had to have been up for a couple hours. Boots woke up slowly, groaning and stretching in the backseat.

 

“Ughhhhh,” he groaned, “what time is it?”

 

“No idea,” Spot said, “if you ever wake up, we’re going to Dunkin Donuts for breakfast.”

 

Boots perked up. “Dunkin Donuts?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Can I get a breakfast sandwich?”

 

“Yep,” Spot said, relieved that he wouldn’t have to fight Boots to not just eat donuts. He went through a phase when he was ten when all he wanted was donuts, and Spot was worse than getting money then. A 98 cent donut was something he could do, even as he felt guilty for giving the kid nothing but sugar. Now he was better at getting money, sometimes had as much as $400 at a time. He didn’t today, but he could afford a breakfast sandwich.

 

Boots made a happy sound and sat up and pulled on his sweatshirt. It was coming to the end of summer—Spot’s sixteen birthday was just a few weeks ago—but he still liked to keep his favorite sweatshirt on. Which was Spot’s fault—he was the one who let their backpacks get stolen last year.

 

“Where we leaving the car?” Boots asked.

 

“Here’s good as anywhere,” Spot said.

 

“What if we get towed?” Boots asked.

 

“We ain’t getting towed,” Spot said.

 

“That’s what you said about the last car,” Boots said, as he pulled on his shoes.

 

“I ever let you sleep outside? Not for years, right?” Spot said, even as he felt like shit. It wasn’t his fault about the last car. He paid the parking meter—it was still paid up when they got back to the parking place. The towing people were just sociopaths.

 

“No,” Boots admitted, “But I don’t want to go back to the motel. It stinks.”

 

“And it’s the only motel that don’t check IDs,” Spot said, “Come on. I’m getting you a breakfast sandwich. Alls you gotta worry about is picking bacon or sausage.”

 

It was a Saturday, so they didn’t have to worry about a cop asking them why they weren’t in school. Usually they lay low during the day during the week, after a couple bad scares that Spot was able to talk their way out of. He read out loud to Boots from books he stole from the library, and sometimes snuck them into movies.

 

He’d tried to teach Boots to read. He really had. But he was shit at it. He didn’t understand why Boots couldn’t connect letters to sounds when it was all so obvious. He even got books about teaching people how to read, but he couldn’t do it. He was useless. He figured he’d be eighteen in two years, and once he got them an apartment and more money, he could get Boots in real classes with real teachers.

 

Until then they would have to just get by.

 

“I want to go to the park,” Boots said, “And the movies. And the bridge. And I want to get McDonalds for lunch.”

 

Spot saw the sixteen dollars he had disappearing quickly. He would have to lift some at the bridge or the park to get them through.

 

“No problem,” he said, “We gotta go to the gym and clean up some, though. Can’t be stinking up the movie theater, can we?”

 

Boots nodded and got out of the car, pulling the tarp off as he went. Spot gathered his backpack and jacket and got out of the car. It wasn’t a far walk from the parking lot to the next Dunkin Donuts, and Spot ordered himself a large coffee, and made Boots pick up a chocolate milk.

 

“You gotta grow,” Spot said, “you’re too damn short.”

 

Boots reached up and touched the top of Spot’s head, only a few inches taller than him. “So you need seven milks, huh?”

 

“Can it,” Spot said. “Get that table over there, I gotta charge my phone.”

 

They sat in the Dunkin for a few hours, even as the employees started staring at them and one kept hovering by the phone. It was when she picked it up that Spot grabbed his backpack off the table and grabbed Boots and walked out. 

 

They went a park they hadn’t been to for a few weeks. On the way to the basketball courts Spot bumped into a few tourist and stashed their wallets in the side pockets of his backpack. When they were in private he'd check them out, call his wallet guy and ditch the ID's, but for now he could focus on having fun. He had to be careful. The last time they were there, Spot risked lifting from a tank of a man who grabbed his wrist when he tried to get away, leaving bruises that still hadn’t completely faded. It was worth it though. There were six twenties in his wallet.

 

Boots quickly found a group of kids playing basketball and joined in. Spot sat on a bench nearby and took out a bit. More lifting could wait until they afternoon. Even if the wallets in his backpack didn't pan out, they still had seven dollars, and that was enough for Boots to get a meal at McDonalds. He alternated between reading his book and watching Boots.

 

It was good Boots was still able to play with other kids. He always had been. He picked up easily at parks when he was little, and got into pick up games with neighborhood kids and no one was the wiser. Sometimes other parents came up to Spot and said, “That your brother?” and Spot just nodded, unable to form words to reply.

 

It was stupid to read when he should have just been watching Boots, watching the park, because suddenly there was a hand gripping his upper arm and pulling him off the bench.

 

“You stupid fucking kid,” the voice hissed in his ear.

 

Spot lashed out, going for the eyes. He turned his head and saw that it was the tank guy from weeks ago. He had a foot on Spot, and easily a hundred and fifty pounds. Spot got a few good swipes in, but before he knew it he was pinned on the ground with the assholes knee in his back.

 

He wasn’t nine years old.

 

He wasn’t.

 

He could get out of this.

 

He had to.

 

Spot thrashed, trying to kick the guy but it was useless. He was completely pinned.

 

“Majorie,” the guy yelled, “Call the police! This is the fucking punk who stole from me!”

 

Black spots filled his vision, and he knew if the guy kept this up he might fucking pass out here on the basketball court.

 

“Boots!” he screamed, “The car! Go to the car!”

 

In the corner of his eye he saw Boots grab their backpacks and take off running. Once he was out of this, he'd find Boots. He'd get to the car and they'd have their day together and Spot would work so much harder to teach him to read, he promised. Just let him get the fuck out of this.

 

The black spots began to overtake his vision and his last thought before he passed out what that he needed to get out of this.

 

He’d promised to take Boots to the movies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This contains violence against a teenager (But not Boots!!!!)
> 
> Soooo I think it's referenced in one of the main fics that Spot was arrested and told the police to find Boots in a broken down car and that's how Boots ended up with Aunt Elane. This isn't exactly what you asked for and that will come too but this was ready to go. 
> 
> Seriously just ask and if it fits in the verse I will probably write it


	7. The Yellow Ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tuppenny who requested sick fic!

The last time Spot talked to David during the last week of April was when he knocked in his dorm room door and jumped back three feet when Spot opened the door, coughing into his hand.

 

"I'm just here to let you know I'm not going near you again until you aren't sick. Also you need to cough into your elbow to stop from spreading germs."

 

Spot groaned, then coughed hard. He looked up and down the hallway to check if anyway was watching before reaching out for David. David laughed and pulled away.

 

"No way dude," he said, "Finals are coming up and I can't afford to get sick."

 

"But you're supposed to want to share things with me," Spot whined. Behind him he heard Racetrack growl and toss and turn in his bunk.

 

"Not this," David said, "I like you and all, but I'm not about to subject myself to whatever you two have going on. You stay here and cough your lungs out, I'm going to study for my Antrho exam."

 

Spot rolled his eyes and shut the door. Their room was dark with blinds half shuttered and Racetrack coughing hard in the bottom bunk. Spot rubbed his eyes and considered the movements it would take to climb to the top bunk. He'd have to step on top of his desk. He'd have to pull himself up on his stomach and then pull himself over by his elbows and it all seemed to fucking exhausting so he lay down on the grubby floor and smacked the side of Racetrack's bed.

 

"Give me a pillow," he demanded before breaking out into another round of coughing which Race joined in on. 

 

"No," Racetrack said into his pillow.

 

"You have three," he said. "You're being selfish. You're a middle class, bougie mother fucker with enough pillows to share."

 

Race threw a pillow at his face as hard as he could. Which wasn't very hard.

 

They were both damn sick.

 

"The 'common cold' my ass," Race said, "Nothing common about this."

 

"Hmm," Spot agreed. "At least you have a bed. I'm stuck down here."

 

"My friend," Race said, sounding miserable, "I know I'm no David, but if you want to come up here--"

 

"Shut up," Spot groaned. "I've slept on floors before."

 

"While sick?" Racetrack said, exaggerated dismay in his voice. "What monsters would expect that of you?"

 

"The kind of monster who took the bottom bunk without asking."

 

"Um, my friend, I offered you the bottom bunk. You glared at me and threw your shit on the top bunk. This was, of course, before you were speaking to me."

 

"Oh right."

 

"The dark years."

 

"That was less than a year ago."

 

"I maintain my right to call it the dark years," Racetrack insisted. "We should ask Mush or Swifty to go get us cold medicine. They would, just because they're nice."

 

"So fucking weird," Spot said.

 

"So weird," Race agreed. "What's your poison, pal? DayQuil? Mucinex? Um...I can't think of a third."

 

"I don't know," Spot said, "Whatever the yellow ones are?"

 

"We'll ask Mush slash Swifty to get us yellow ones then," Race said solemnly.

 

Spot turned onto his side and discovered it was not more comfortable than lying on his back. The movement spurred a series of coughs that ripped through him and left him feeling like pure shit.

 

"My friend," Race said, "If this keeps up we might have to go to the health center. I know you probably have some serious baggage around being sick, and that is, of course, difficult to manage, but if you look deep within your soul and find it within your angsty straggly little Brooklyn ass--"

 

"I'll go," Spot groaned.

 

"Seriously?" Racetrack laughed. "I was prepared to have to badger you into it for hours."

 

"David won't hang out with me until I'm better," Spot said, "I need to get better."

 

"And you need to be able to climb up to your bed."

 

"That too," Spot agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes they do have a couch in their room.


	8. Seriously

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For politics_and_prose who requested the conversation referenced in[ chapter 14 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412275/chapters/42825260) of This Summer Break where Race finds Spot and convinced him he didn't care he was gay.

“How’d you find me?”

 

“Well, I’d tell you that I’ve been checking your haunts but I don’t know where you haunts are. It’s really only in the last twenty-four hours that we’ve thought you were missing, mainly on account of your new best friend David losing his damn mind. You have all of the Lodging House on a group chat scanning the city for you. I got a text from a Ella Monroe that she saw you at this library but was too chicken to approach you. Sort of how like when there’s a killer on the run the police say, ‘report but do not approach.’ That’s you, Spot. You’ve been reported and I’m the only one qualified to approach.”

 

“No way the entire Lodging House cares where I am.”

 

“They don’t. They care about David.”

 

“That checks out. What the fuck do you want?”

 

“Primarily? A good milkshake. To win on the ponies for once. Secondarily? To go back to a week ago when we were friends and you answered my texts.”

 

“I never answered your texts.”

 

“Yes, but you didn’t answer them in a different way than you don’t answer them right now. See back then, your hostility was kind of funny, and now it’s kind of alarming because you dropped this big piece of information then disappeared.”

 

“Would you just—shut up okay?”

 

“Ohhhh I’m sorry I’ll whisper. See, we’re in a locked study room in the basement on a library with no one else anywhere near us but yeah, I’ll whisper.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“‘Whatever.’ Whatever what? I see you looking at that door like you’re going to bolt. I won’t fight you if you do, amigo. You’re made it super clear over the last six months that you have a tank of pent up rage in that tiny frame and I’m honestly just here to make sure you’re alive. I have no desire to lose a limb in the process.”

 

“I’m not going to hurt you!”

 

“Oh! Wow! You sound so shocked that I came to that conclusion.”

 

“I don’t have a problem with you.”

 

“Cool. I don’t have a problem with you either. Well, I do. I wish you texted me back more often, because sometimes my texts merit a response. And I wish you didn’t wake up at four in the morning and type nonstop on you laptop because you type like you want to break all the keys especially Q. But I don’t care that you’re….the thing that causes you to disappear for days.”

 

“Yeah right.”

 

“Okay. Let’s say I did. What’s the worst thing that would happen?”

 

“…”

 

“I’m weird when David comes over. That’s it. That’s the worst thing I could do.”

 

“That’s seriously what you think the worst thing you could do is?”

 

“What? I could make mean jokes?”

 

“ _Seriously.”_

“I’m sorry, is there a book having a gay roommate that I should have read? Should I be more aggressive? We are in a library, after all. You stay here. I’ll go find it.”

 

“Well you seem pissed off.”

 

“Yeah, that I was about to go eat cheesy fries and Ella Monroe summoned me from my plans to find you acting totally weird in a library basement. I’m doing this because if you disappear, I’ll get a new roommate. And I don’t want a new roommate. You’re weird and you don’t answer my texts, but you have a fake and you are funny by accident sometimes and you are weirdly good at listening which is nice because I’m good at talking. Holy shit. Am _I_ in love with you?”

 

“No.”

 

“No, hear me out, Spot. I put up with your bullshit and I enjoy spending time with you. I hope David is willing to step aside.”

 

“This isn’t funny. Just kill me or whatever.”

 

“Oh my god you think I’m here to kill you! Spottifer, I’m not even remotely capable nor do I have the desire. Are you secretly from a rural town in the sticks where sodomy is still a crime? Jeez louise, what do I have to do to convince you I don’t give a shit about this?”

 

“You can’t not give a shit about this. You share a room with me. Doesn’t it make you angry?”

 

“So much about you makes me angry, but this does not. I seriously don’t give a shit. Dude, at any given moment all I am thinking about is myself or my next game. There is honestly very little room in my brain for little Spot Daniel Conlon.”

 

“That’s not my middle name.”

 

“You have a middle name? And that’s what you object to? In this conversation I’ve called you Spottifer.”

 

“Just…okay? I don’t want to deal with this. I’m not going back with you just to find out tonight you actually have an issue with us. Me.”

 

“Mmmmm, okay. I have some news for you about Mush, Blink, Swifty and David. You know David, right?”

 

“You don’t live with them. It’s not the same.”

 

“Um okay. Cool cool cool cool cool. I’d make up a story about my gay cousin living with us and me not being a sociopath about it, but hey, why lie when I can just keep insisting to no effect that I truly do not give a shit about what does it for you.”

 

“And I’m just supposed to believe that?”

 

“Nah. Why would you? Why don’t you just keep sleeping wherever you’ll been sleeping and not going to class and freaking your boyfriend out. You should definitely do that instead of risking me not being a total dick when I have proven to be nothing but lovely thus far.”

 

“You’re damn unpleasant.”

 

“Aw, you’re back to normal! Can I ask a wild question? Have you seriously been hiding out for days because you thought I was going to do something? Moi?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay good. Because, you know, if you _were_ doing that, then it would be embarrassingly unnecessary. I’ve seen you cut an apple. I have no desire to be on your bad side.”

 

“I’m not some monster.”

 

“No, you’re not! You see what I mean? I don’t have a problem with you, I don’t want to give you shit about being gay. I wouldn’t even know where to start?”

 

“You could start by calling me a—“

 

“La la la. No slurs in the library!”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Seriously! Please come home with me. Text your boyfriend back, bozo.”

 

“If anything happens tonight I’ll fucking kill you.”

 

“Ha ha! Amazing! Let’s keep track and find that you are the only one who has made any threats in this conversation. I can’t wait to live with you again.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Cool. You are paying for my cheese fries.”


	9. Did You Forget to Save?

“FUCK!”

 

David jolted awake. It took him a minute to figure out where he was. He was on Spot’s mattress on the floor in his bedroom. It was dark. Race’s bed was occupied by Spot sitting on it, gripping the screen of his laptop in the dark of the room.

 

He groaned and sat up. He shook his phone to turn the flashlight on and turned it onto Spot who squinted and held his hand up.

 

“Fuck,” Spot repeated, sounding defeated. “Don’t blind me.”

 

David checked his phone and saw that it was five AM. He carefully got up and turned on the metal light on Race’s desk. The room was lit up, revealing that Spot had a death grip on his laptop and looked _bereft._

“What the hell?” David asked.

 

“I lost my short story,” Spot bit out.

 

“Okay,” David said. “Did it like, get away from you? You can edit.”

 

“No, I,” Spot actually shook his computer like it was a magic eight ball, “restarted my fucking computer and I lost my short story. It’s due in four hours.”

 

“Did you save it?”

 

The look on Spot’s face was absolutely mutinous.

 

“So you didn’t,” David confirmed.

 

“The Roosevelt Scholarship is a bunch of fucking cheapskates giving us these cheap ass computers. If they were really investing in us they’d give us real computers that recover documents.”

 

David refused to get defensive. It wasn’t like he was in charge of the scholarship, but seriously. “You could have saved it, you bozo,” David said.

 

“I shouldn’t have to save it until I’m done!” Spot snapped.

 

“You literally write papers for a living, how do you believe that?”

 

When he got no response, David ducked his head and sat on the bottom bunk next to him. “Okay, but don’t you write really fast? Like, haven’t you already broken the ‘e’ key off your keyboard because you type so ridiculously fast? Can’t you just write a new short story?”

 

“I can’t just _write a new short story,_ I worked hard on this shit.”

 

“You did?” David asked. He was pretty surprised. Spot regularly wrote his poems and short stories for Creative Writing 100 drunk or in the middle of parties. He joked all the time about how little effort it took make stuff up for his stories.

 

“No,” Spot said. “I’m just saying. Four hours isn’t enough.”

 

“You could get an extension?” David suggested.

 

“I don’t need an extension!”

 

David rolled his eyes and turned his body around so he was lying down behind where Spot was sitting up. “Just write about me,” he said, already feeling sleep pulling at him. “Write about a rascal Jewish boy from Chicago working at a hot dog stand.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Maybe?” David asked.

 

“Don’t get excited, you’re never reading any of this.”

 

David hummed and closed his eyes. “It’s adorable how seriously you’re taking this.”

 

Spot’s fingers flew over the keys. “I’m not—I don’t give a _shit_ about this class.”

 

“I can tell.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“I can tell.”

 

“Just…” Spot held up a hand for a fraction a second before returning to typing as fast as he could. “Just tell me more about the hot dog stand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by my losing the ENTIRETY OF THE LAST CHAPTER OF THIS SUMMER BREAK in a Microsoft Word accident.


End file.
